


Valiant

by Morveren



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Explicit Language, F/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-17
Updated: 2019-01-17
Packaged: 2019-10-11 20:20:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17453639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morveren/pseuds/Morveren
Summary: All around the world, people are dying, killed by strangers with no names or memories.In dark, secluded places, there are whispers about an old organization rising from the ashes.In the twisting streets of a new city, you follow the thoughts of a man who only dreamed about death and violence.But instead of finding a cold-blooded murderer, you find an assassin with an empty past, and a world full of lies, secrets, and blood.[This work is a rewrite of Mercy]





	Valiant

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Winterbugsy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winterbugsy/gifts).



> Entire work gifted to Winterbugsy, for all her encouragement and support. This wouldn't have been posted without her.

“People with secrets shouldn’t make enemies. People with destinies shouldn’t make plans.” _Dreams of Gods and Monsters_ , Laini Taylor.

*********

You first saw the Soldier the summer after your mother died.

The heat had been nearly unbearable that day, the old ceiling fan not doing nearly enough to cool down your rooms. Lace curtains fluttered lazily, stirred by some unknown breeze.

You could feel sweat running down the back of your neck. 

But despite the relentless heat, your father had opted to wear a long-sleeved sweater. Your mother had bought it for him, you knew. Ever since her death, everything he had worn had been bought by her. 

You remembered her gushing about how handsome he looked in the sweater, how well it fit on him. You remembered how your father had smiled, maybe a little embarrassed at all the praise. 

The sweater didn’t look so good on him now, though. He had lost some weight after her death and all of his clothes hung loosely on him, sunken in odd places, as if he was shrinking in on himself. 

Dark circles showed where your father sweated through his clothes, but if he was bothered by the heat, he didn’t say.

The day you saw the Soldier, you remembered pacing the floor of your rented rooms. Dark, polished wood that felt smooth against your bare feet, but creaked whenever you stepped on the wrong spot.

And your father would make the tiniest of flinches at each creak, like he was expecting a blow or a slap to the face. You soon began to avoid those spots, but you didn’t stop pacing.

Words buzzed around in your head like a swarm of ants and you could feel your own thoughts slipping away. The words made it hard to think.

**Heat.**

**Pool.**

**Water.**

Words you didn’t understand **: init, walis, pera, araw.**

You grimaced. Your father wasn’t speaking. And there was nobody else in the room.

Before, they only came when you were in bed at night, when everything was so quiet that you could hear your own breathing.

When you had been a child, you had thought that it was an imaginary friend, some being who’d come out of the closet at night to whisper secrets to you. Your mother would often find you babbling to yourself, sometimes erupting into high-pitched laughs.

As you grew older though, you learned to keep them to yourself. A girl in second grade had hit you across the face when you had asked her why your _friend_ would whisper the name _Jennifer_ whenever she was around.

You told your mother you fell down.

It had been easy, back then, to keep the voices down.

You glanced at your father, still sitting in his chair. He was pretending to read a book, though you could see that his eyes weren’t moving.

Your mother had started talking about the voices too, before she died.

“Hey, dad?” you said, softly.

It was the first thing you’d said all day.

**Help.**

**Have to.**

**Bags.**

**Sana.**

He looked up from his book and forced on a smile. In the span of two months, your father seemed to have aged several decades. His hair was shot with grey and there was a beginning of a bald spot on top of his head.

The flesh under his eyes was soft and puffy, and he smiled like a man who had forgotten how.

“Yes?” he said.

He didn’t say your name, didn’t call you Ladybug or Sparrow or Beetle or any of the numerous animals you had asked him to paint you as when you had been young.

Somehow, that stung.

“We’re on vacation, aren’t we?” you asked. You gestured at the window, the mountains that were just outside the cottage the two of you had rented. They were beautiful, majestic, even, and you had insisted on that specific cottage because you thought that your father might want to paint them.

But the brushes and paper pads had stayed inside their bags. The watercolor cakes so unused that most of them had cracked down the middle.

Your father looked surprised at the question.

“Yes, of course. What do you think we’re doing?” he said, though he made no move to get out of his chair.

 _Mourning,_ you thought. And just like that words that didn’t belong in your head streaked through your mind—

**Thought.**

**Fun.**

**Smile.**

**Heat.**

“Then why aren’t we…you know, _vacationing?”_ you asked. It had been three days since the two of you had arrived from the airport and since then, your father had not taken up any of the tours offered by the hotel guides. Nor did he seem interested in the brochures that had been handed to him when the two of you checked in.

Instead, he smiled that vacant smile of his and said, “We’ll see, we’ll see.”

That was what he said now, with that same vacant smile, “We’ll see, we’ll see.”

You stared at him, waiting for him to say more. Maybe you were waiting for him to smile— _really smile—_ at you and say, “All right, Ladybug, what am I going to paint today?”

Maybe you were watching him shift restlessly in his chair, as if he wasn’t comfortable in any position. You remember that he used to sit for hours, painting layer after layer of rich watercolors on his canvas, until the colors nearly burst off the paper.

After your mother had died, he acted like the world was composed of sharp angles and razor edges, as if every position he found himself in was painful.

Maybe you wanted him to act like he hadn’t been buried right alongside his wife and the only thing that was left of him was the shell.

When he realized that you were staring, he raised his eyebrows at you—you could see the deep wrinkles in his forehead—”Something else you wanted?”

The words leaped to your lips, so quick they would have tumbled out if not for the fresh onslaught of new voices.

**Guests.**

**Food.**

**Breakfast.**

**Sorry.**

And your own thoughts, mixing together with all the strange words, _I miss her, too._

But instead, you said, “Do you mind if I go for a walk? It’s too hot in here for the two of us.”

Your father nodded absently, already opening his book again. “Sure, that’s fine.”

“I’ll be back in a few hours.”

But he was already pretending to read his book and when you slipped out of the room, it was like you were never even there.

*****

 

You didn’t know the name of the place your father picked for your supposed vacation. At the time, you had simply been happy that he wanted to go somewhere with you. Away from the house, where your mother’s ghost haunted every corner.

People talked about _ghosts_ and _hauntings,_ cracked mirrors and thrown furniture. But the reality of it was much more depressing.

Circular coffee stains on the table where she often forgot to use a coaster. Opening a drawer and finding her fountain pen inside it. Her handwriting on a Post-It note on a fridge, _eggs, bread, milk._

The random, odd moments of forgetfulness that would strike you like lightning, turning around to tell her something funny, only to realize that she wasn’t there anymore. The way it felt like you had lost her all over again.

In the back of your head, you still expected her to come home with the groceries, still expecting to hear the banging of pots and pans in the morning, to come down and see her smile and say—

“Where are you going, Ma’am?”

You blinked and the image of your mother vanished, to be replaced by a smiling man, wearing one of the staff uniforms for the hotel.

**Hate.**

**Stupid.**

**Cheap.**

Despite the heat, you felt a sliver of ice shoot up your spine.

“Just uh....” You had no idea where you wanted to go. “Just a quick walk around.”

“Are you sure you aren’t taking the vans? We have several tour packages—”

“No, I just wanted to see the place.”

The man looked at you strangely, but then shrugged as if to say, _Suit yourself._

“You can leave your room key at the desk if you want, Ma’am,” he said.

The room key was attached to a heavy, wooden charm; the carved face of a smiling sun, with the hotel’s name below it.

“I’ll hang on to it, thanks.”

“Have fun on your walk, ma’am.”

He waved vaguely, still with that smile plastered on his face. As you walked away from him, you could hear the voices trailing him like a cloud.

**Hate.**

**Stupid.**

**Heat.**

**Kill.**

For the second time that day, you shivered.

 

*********

You realized why the man had given you such an odd look when you told him that you were going for a walk. And why he had offered the vans.

Other than the hotel, there was little to see of the place. Just a straight concrete road and endless rows of sugarcane plants, the long stalks swaying gently in the wind.

Men and women in straw hats worked in the fields, some of them inspecting the plants with a shake of their head. A man carrying two metal buckets on opposite ends of a pole and even from a distance, you could see his face shining with sweat.  

**Ulan.**

**Init.**

**Heat.**

**Water.**

You could feel the heat beating down on you, your shirt sticking to your sweat-soaked back and all you could think about was how your father would have loved to paint this. Your stomach tightened at the thought.

A man in the fields glanced at you and smiled, then went back to his work.

You could feel your heart beating in your fingertips.

_Something was wrong._

Cold sweat trickled down the back of your neck.

**God.**

**Please.**

**Kill.**

You swallowed.

**Run.**

**Help.**

**Sarah.**

The words were coming in faster now and you could feel your own thoughts melting away, your heart beating in time to the relentless drum of voices.

**Blood.**

**Gun.**

**Car.**

**God.**

“Hello?” you whispered.

You had the sudden, vivid image of your mother sitting in the kitchen, her lips moving silently.

Your mother leaning forward in her seat, the pupils of her eyes so dilated they looked almost black, “ _You can hear them, too, can’t you? Please tell me you can hear them, too.”_

_I can, Mom, I can._

**Help me.**

**Help me, please.**

**Orders.**

**Kill.**

A warm breeze blew across the fields, the sound of rustling leaves like eager whispers.

**Please.**

“Hello?” you said again, this time louder.

No one answered.

**Hurts.**

You took several steps forward, painfully aware of the people around you. There was nothing wrong with this, you thought. There was nothing wrong with taking a walk.

But you weren’t taking a walk, were you?

You were following the voices.

Your path soon left the concrete road, straight into the fields and you couldn’t help but throw a quick glance at some of the workers. But they didn’t seem to notice you.

**Help.**

**Scared.**

**Please.**

The plants were tall, taller than you and for a moment, you worried about getting swallowed by the thin, bladed leaves.

**Help me, please.**

You swallowed.

This was stupid.

This was insane.

This was something your mother would have done.

You swayed on your feet. The best thing that you could do right now was turn around and  go back to the hotel.

So what were you doing here?

You thought of your mother, pleading at you to admit that you heard the voices, too.

_Baby, please, they think I’m crazy._

Your frantic, desperate denials.

You took one step and another and then another, until the fields swallowed you whole.

*****

 

You don’t know how long how you have been walking; long enough that your throat had gone dry, long enough that your clothes were soaked in sweat, long enough that the blades of the leaves had left cuts on your arms and legs.

Long enough for the voices to get louder.

**Please.**

**Someone save me.**

**Enough.**

You stumbled, something hard shifting underneath your feet.

And there, nestled amongst the yellowed grass and cracked earth, you found a gun. The top half of it was gone.

With the sun so bright overhead, you could see flashes of something metal scattered next to the broken firearm. You bent down to pick them up.

Bullets. The front half of them were completely flattened.

You swallowed. Dropped the bullets like they burned against your palm.

“Hello?” you called again, louder, as loud as you dared.

You expected the words again, you expected silence.

But you didn’t expect the answering scream, one that sent ice flooding through your veins. 

Like a wounded animal, like someone being murdered.

You ran.

The leaves cut into the flesh of your arms, your face, and the words flowed faster, the pace as frantic as the beating of your own heart.

**Please**

**Don’t want to die—**

**HYDRA.**

**Have to—**

And you come across a break in the field, a clearing of dead plants and a lone scarecrow.

And two men in the center, one of them flat on his back, his button-up shirt stained with sweat and blood.

**Pain.**

**Help.**

He was gasping for air, his face contorted in pain, but his eyes, his eyes were fixated on the man in front of him.

The man whose back was turned to you, dressed in clothes so black that they seemed to suck the color from their surroundings. The man whose metal arm shone brightly in the sun.

And on the side of it, a shining red star, as red as the blood that bloomed steadily on the first man’s shirt.

In the middle of an empty field, thousands of miles away from your home, too far away from help, you saw the Soldier for the first time.

*********

Your breath caught in your throat and something instinctive, that small, animal part of your brain, told you to stay quiet, to not draw attention to yourself.

In the span of a single second, you recognized yourself as prey.

Looking at the Soldier for the first time, not knowing who or what he was, something inside you cowered.

_This man was dangerous._

Then he raised the gun in his hand and fired, and the crack of a gunshot rolled over the silent fields like thunder.

The back of his victim’s head exploded in a burst of blood and gore.

You screamed.

Quick as lightning, the Soldier whipped around and you saw that he was wearing a mask that obscured the lower half of his face.

But that wasn’t what frightened you, what frightened you were his eyes. The absolute lack of mercy in them. You might as well have been staring in the eyes of a corpse.

An almost imperceptible twitch ran through his arm, the flesh one, the one holding the gun.

He raised the firearm towards you and despite the distance, you could see the blackness inside the barrel. Even underneath the harsh sun, the darkness you saw in there was endless.

A word swept through your mind, as cold as anything.

**Witness.**

You scrambled backwards, hands thrown in front of your face in one last, desperate plea for mercy.

You weren’t thinking of your death or how much it would hurt, no, you were thinking of your father. You were thinking that if you died, your father wouldn’t survive it.

And maybe that was what compelled you to speak, throat so tight with fear that you could barely speak.

“Don’t shoot me.”

A shiver ran through the man, a ripple of black amidst a sea of green.

Your heart pounded inside your chest; you wanted to run, to get away from him, away from the body lying in the field, staring at the sky with cold, sightless eyes.

But your legs wouldn’t move. 

The soldier’s metal fingers twitched. The arm holding the gun shook, violent tremors that made it rattle in his hand. Your heart was beating hummingbird-fast in your throat and you wondered if he would accidentally discharge it.

Would he hit an arm?

A leg?

Would he make this far more painful than it had to be?

And then the gun slipped between his fingers, dried grass crunching as it hit the ground.

Your throat was so tight that you could barely breathe.

Had he actually heard you?

He didn’t seem like a man for mercy.

The metal arm flashed and the Soldier reached for something strapped to his thigh. Another bright flash and you saw the wicked edge of the knife in his hand. Terror was a train that screamed up your spine, and you were moving, scrambling backward, trying to put as much distance between you and the Soldier.

_He was going to do this slow._

**Eliminate.**

Something hit the back of your foot and you lost your balance, hit the ground with enough force to knock the wind out of you. Cold sweat ran down your face as the Soldier approached, and the shine of the knife was brighter than the sun.

Even on the ground, you scrambled backward, pebbles digging into your palms as you tried to find some purchase.

The man was like a shadow as he moved towards you, swift, silent. He never said anything.

How can you kill someone you’ve never even spoken to? How can you look at a stranger and decide that they needed to die?

“NO!” The word burst out of you, one last, useless defiance against this man, this killer. And like a taut string, something inside you _snapped._ A dam. A wall. Something inside you gave way and you felt…

_Power._

A force that rolled out of you, condensed in a single, desperate word. All around you, the leaves of the sugarcane plants rustled, swept back by a sudden gust of wind.

The Soldier stopped dead in his tracks.

And you saw.

You saw those eyes come alive, no longer cold and emotionless. They regained a quality they were previously missing. Humanity, perhaps.

And you saw the way the Soldier looked at you.

Not as a victim, another nameless target to be killed in cold blood.

No, he looked _confused._

The knife dropped to his feet.

**What—**

Wide blue eyes stared at you, as if he was hoping for an explanation.

You could feel your lips trembling, fingernails digging into the hard earth. You wanted to cry, you wanted to run, but most of all, you wanted to know _what the hell was happening._

The Soldier reached out a hand toward you—the metal one—not like he was going to strangle you, but almost as if he was—

_Going to help you up._

You could feel your legs trembling and you shook your head, violently, pushed yourself backwards, desperate for a few more precious inches that separated you and the Soldier.

Your eyes were drawn to the body on the field. The spreading pool of blood underneath his head. His mouth had been open in one last, silent scream.

The Soldier followed your gaze and you saw the way he stiffened when he saw the body, the tautness in his spine, the sudden clenched fists.

 **_No_ ** **.**

A single word. Yet it was filled with so much pain, so much anguish, that you could feel tears burning your eyes.

_He was so still._

Except for the fingers of his metal arm, twitching, like they were closing around something that wasn’t there.

**Shield.**

When you stood up, your legs shook so badly that you thought you were going to fall down again. The Soldier hadn’t moved, his head bowed over the dead man’s body like someone praying.

Or mourning.

Dried leaves whispered restlessly underneath your feet as you moved.

One step backward. Then another. And another.

You kept your eyes on the Soldier, watching him for any sudden movement, any indication that he was going to reach for the weapons that lay at his feet.

He still hadn’t moved.

You could feel a scream rising in your throat, the muscles in your legs growing taut, tense. The need to run away from this man was nearly overwhelming.

Would he shoot you if you ran?

Would he kill you if you stayed?

You thought of your father, waiting for you back at the cottage.

You couldn’t die here.

You _wouldn’t_ die here.

You ran, your heart leaping in your throat as you did so, certain that you were going to hear the sound of a gunshot, feel the heat of bullet piercing your flesh.

Leaves cut into your skin as you ran, a sudden flare of pain against your arms, your cheeks. And you felt a wild, unbridled _gratefulness_ that you were still alive to feel it. You stumbled, fell a few times, small stones digging into your palms as you steadied yourself. The muscles in your legs _burned_ whenever you were forced to stop.

But still, you got up and kept running and every moment, you were waiting for the gunshot, for the shadow of a man emerging from the tall leaves, for the flash of the Soldier’s metal arm.

But he never came.

You broke out of the fields, covered in dirt and sweat and grass stains, your appearance wild enough to startle some of the nearby farmers.

Your lungs were on fire, spreading heat with every breath you took. You could feel tears burning your eyes.

And your heart, beating hard enough that you were afraid that it would burst _,_ as if in celebration of the fact that you were _alive, alive, alive._

“Miss?”

 **Lost.**  

**Girl.**

**Who—**

A woman with a sunburned face approached you, her face a mask of concern, her hands held out as if she was placating a wild animal.

“Are you all right?”

You know now that you should have said yes, should have made up some excuse about getting lost, should have kept quiet about the _voices,_ and the _dead man in the fields,_ and the _Soldier._

But you didn’t know that, then.

You only knew that you were alive and you only knew that you were afraid.

You only knew that you saw a man with a metal arm kill someone in cold blood that day, had been planning on killing you, too.

And you only knew that somehow, through some unknown way, you had stopped him.


End file.
